Work of the Devil
by InfamouslyInfatuated
Summary: Another fun little House/Cuddy fic. Set directly after my first one "What a Wicked Game to Play..." i.e., still in S3. Again, no real storyline...just me being a shipper until the the end of time. :P


Title: Work of the Devil  
Author: Nikayla  
Genre: Romance  
Pairing: House/Cuddy  
Set During: Again, that little bit of time when House was "healed"...only the amount of time was longer...just for my benefit. :)  
Rating: PG-13  
Disclaimer: No, I don't own House or Cuddy; if I did...well if I told you I'd have to kill you. :P

Patients and consults and exams, oh my! The endless chatter of a waiting room full of idiots reverberates in your ears and the moment the clock strikes 4:00 your mind wanders to much more enjoyable activities you imagine you'll be indulging in this evening. It's been three days since your last encounter. You figured, for once, you'd give her a few days to rehabilitate her senses and cool her jets. That, or watch her walk on eggshells, attempting and failing to prepare herself for one of your clever tricks. And your arrogance hasn't diminished a bit because surely she must be itching for something now, just waiting for you to jump her. Ha! How poetic of you.

For fear of becoming increasingly cliché you decide to get her at home. True, she'll be more in her element but you're willing to give her a _bit_ of an upper hand. Or maybe just a false sense of security.

She must not have been home long because when she opens the door she's still in today's outfit, heels and all. Your eyes rake up and down her body, taking in every inch of her enticing form. The blacks of your eyes are flaring at the sight of her and she's _almost _surprised to see you here. Almost. Your index finger inches into the waistband of her skirt. She moves to shoo it away but you snatch her wrist and lead her inside without a word.

You cover her lips with your own before she even has a chance to protest; the sensation instantly throwing you off balance, sending you crashing into the nearest wall. It's a pulse-pounding kiss; mind fogging even. And when one of your hands teases the hem of her skirt, searching for skin and the other finds a resting place at her hip it seems like forever since you've touched her. Not a mere three days but more like a thousand; everything feels newer than before.

You push your weight against her, pinning her in and your hands move to press into the wall around her as you pull your lips from hers and a wicked smile plays across your features. You fight the urge that's building in your stomach and release your hold on her. Her eyes are questioning you but you decide that messing with her; riling her up and letting her down could quite entertaining; if only temporarily.

You absentmindedly make your way to her kitchen, leaving her altogether flustered in your wake. You reach her refrigerator and nonchalantly look inside trying to act like that kiss didn't even happen; like none of that even happened. She's approached you now and a look of pure annoyance spreads across her lovely face. "Oh, did you want something?" you barely sputter out before her hands are on your chest pushing you forcefully back against the counter and what little resistance you had left is seeping away.

Her lips connect with your again; a kiss so electric, the hairs on your arms stand on end. And her must've been handcrafted by the devil because every time you kiss her you get pulled in and find yourself more and more susceptible to her.

The power her kiss holds over you is unwavering. She could get you to do anything if she used this form of persuasion more often. But you'd never let her know that. If she knew the hold she actually over you, you are certain it wouldn't be nearly as fun to watch her squirm uneasily at your suggestive innuendos and attempts (and sometimes successes) at getting her into any kind of small, empty space with nothing but debauchery and ill intent on your mind; leaving her breathless and guilt-riddled at the drop of a dime.

The thrill would be gone but more importantly, so would her guilt. And guiltless sex just isn't what it used to be. The guiltier she feels and the closer you come to getting caught, the more thrilling the event becomes. And you can't wait until the next time when the possibility of someone finding you is even higher and you get _that _much closer to seeing her scramble for any excuse she can find to dispel any rumors that might arise from these supposed encounters with you. But for now she needn't fret; safe within the confines of her home, away from prying eyes where the likelihood of being caught is slim to never gonna happen.

Your lips pull their attention to her neck, tainting her skin. Your hands drop to her hips and you spin around, pinning her to the counter before lifting her onto it. She lets out a most girlish giggle and your name tumbles from her lips. You rake your teeth across her skin before your lips meet again in another rattling kiss. Right now she is everything you want and _everything_ you need and you relish every sin-filled kiss for as long as possible.

Slowly you unfasten the buttons of her jacket, then drop the useless garment on the floor. You spot a familiar patch of bruised skin that try as she might she couldn't hide with make-up. You decide the little guys needs a friend so you look to the other side of her neck and direct your mouths attention there, only higher so it will be even more difficult to conceal.

You pull her forward, situating yourself further between her legs. There's an ache in your chest and the relief can only be in the touch of her skin. She rids you of your jacket and her fingers trail up under your t-shirt, but the ache doesn't cease; if anything it roars and throbs even louder than before, like little misfires in your nerves growing up to be bigger, angrier misfires but you can't get enough. Every touch, however brief, just makes you want her more and more of her. The gentle caresses prove not enough. You crave something rougher; nails not finer tips, anything to feel more of her on you.

You lift her from the counter; your hands never leaving your waist, guiding her back to her bedroom. Kisses become rougher and clothing is hitting the ground all along the way. When you back her into the door, you hike up her skirt ever-(not)-so slightly and you nearly claw your way up her legs. You thrust the door open and you stumble inside, thankful that you land on the bed and not on the floor. You loom over, taunting her skin with your own, laying false promises that soon you can't help but keep. Your lips kiss fire across her stomach as you pull her skirt from her legs nearly in fistfuls. There's damn near desperation in your touch now and she herself must be the work of the devil. Porcelain skin and cherry-stained lips and the most shockingly blue eyes you've ever seen. All those things and a figure that could make a blind man blush and a mute man sing; how on Earth could a man be expected to resist her? How can you?

Your hands can't help but touch her and your lips can't help but kiss her. All that control you've built up gets swept away and your mind has but a single focus. And you are certain that nothing will live up to this; this moment where you are the only people in the world and the friction that's being created between you is deafening. It's as if you are Adam and she is Eve and you're saying "screw the apple" because you'd rather go hungry than _ever _be starved of this woman again.

1/05/08 

Finished: 12:46pm

Nikayla


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